Under The April Sky

Chapter One

The day the world ended started off quiet.

It was one of those days where it feels like the Earth has a specific hum to it. A ringing, a constant noise that bathes us with a sense of normalcy and routine. The morning started off with this quiet, gentle aura of protection one only sees in those old Hollywood movies. When the sun rose in a fury of reds and violets, I knew the atmosphere was gearing up for something I couldn't possibly comprehend. Of course, one does not know their world is about to end.

Just the way that no one is exactly sure when it is about to begin. 

I can pinpoint the beginning and the end like linear lines on a graph. I can pinpoint the exact moments of those years when my heart was full and when it was snapped in half. I can see into my memories as if it is happening again in the slowest of motion. I can touch, taste, and smell each memory as if it was once again my reality. For the longest time after the world ended, I couldn't remember what those moments felt like. It was more of a blur of fantasy as I was unable to comprehend that those moments of joy were mine. It was as if I was watching my life through a waterfall and I could only make out a few distorted images of what was.

It was my sophomore year of college. I disliked college very deeply in the beginning. It was as if all the light in my life was slowly dying out, leaving me in a haze of a worthless abyss. All colleges are very anti-suicide and very pro-therapy for a reason. The kids don't listen to the adults in their lives. Instead, they carve their own path, deciding that the only way to breathe and survive the next four years is to heavily engage in the plethora of alcohol and drugs that give life to their campus. I was never a good person, at least I wasn't a good person in those first few years of college.

I blacked out every weekend during my freshman year. I had met a guy named Henry who always had a thirty-rack of cheap beer tucked hidden under his bed. It tasted like shit most of the time, but after a few beers, the reality of being young and stupid faded into a cascade of good unfiltered feelings. Henry would tell me every time he was on the verge of blacking out that he would be president someday. In my state of drunken stupor, I totally believed him.

Henry would bring girls over sometimes. They would bring their stashes of weed and other assorted pills that Henry seemed to indulge in. I would sit quietly on his roommate's couch and play video games while they did whatever Henry wanted to do. Sometimes we would make out and maybe engage in other perilous activities. But to be quite honest, I don't really remember their names or faces or whether or not I had dreamt the whole situation up. Being a nineteen-year-old boy far away going to the University of Oklahoma is truly a recipe for disaster.

I made other friends during my freshman year. My best friend John sat next to me on the first day of my Intro to Meteorology class or whatever the fuck it was called. John had lived in California before going to OU. He was tan, had bleach-blonde hair, and was nice enough for me to continue sitting next to him after the first day. We would drink on Thursday nights and his liquor selection was a gold mine compared to Henry's.

I met a few girls in that first year. A lot never made a serious impression on me besides their looks. I can admit I was in the wrong for that. It's difficult to find a mature, gentleman-like man at nineteen. Most nineteen-year-old men have one thing on their minds: party. If they don't, it's because they are already in a relationship. But I was not, and I vowed I would spend my college experience single. I made that choice for no particular reason besides the fact I didn't want a girlfriend. I didn't want dates, or love, or anything. Like I said, I was a dick. Who isn't a dick at nineteen?

The point is my time in college, at least the very first year, was full of non-academic screw-ups on my end. After a while, I learned to forgive myself for my misdeeds. But the forgiveness came long after this story's end. Forgiveness is something that takes a lot of time, a lot of soul-searching. And frankly, when I was nineteen, I didn't wanna soul search. 

Hell, I didn't want to do much of anything when I was nineteen. I engaged in a lot of self-loathing and little happiness. I don't mean to make it sound so bleak and terrible. How I remember the world before her is something like a black-and-white veil separating one world from the other.  The way I remember love before her was somewhat like a void. An endless cycle of grey skies circling above me like a drain. I don't miss the way I was before her. 

Of course, at that moment, I didn't know I was living the before. Life is funny that way, you see. You live, breathe, and spend time in a world that belongs to what you consider now to be the before. The after is never simply an end to that before either. It folds together and overlaps like a blanket being folded over you before you fall into a deep sleep. 

Love is slow and incredibly patient. It tugs gently at you for months before you finally give in and follow its golden lead. At nineteen, however, you want life to move fast. You want the days to be short and the nights to be long.  You want your heart to pump blood swiftly through your veins. You never want to slow down, appear bored, or fall into a routine. And love to me at nineteen, was a routine I didn't want to fall into. 

I fell down a deep hole of regret and undeniable pain during my freshman year. That summer spent at the beaches at home in Fort Lauderdale didn't provide me with the light I was searching for. I didn't exactly know what I wanted or why I wanted it in the first place. When I moved back to my dorm in early August, I thought the world was ending. 

The world had no reason to end. 

There was no cataclysm or great fall of the stars above my head. 

But it felt like I was walking headfirst into hell without anyone to pull me back. I, of course, kept this all to myself. At nineteen, there is nothing more terrifying than asking for help. 

As I approached my sophomore year I realized two terrible truths: 

One... I was stupid.

Two... I was slowly drowning. 

That was the beginning.